Inside waited not only savings but also a letter — written by my mother, who had died of cancer when I was a baby. Her words carried love I had never known: “I left everything I had for you, my June. You were my dream.”
Tears blurred my eyes as I followed her final instruction to “visit 42 Cypress Lane.” There, beneath a weeping willow, I found her resting place — Lena Maynard, Loving Mother.
I knelt, whispering, “I love you too, Mama,” as the breeze curled around me like her arms. For the first time, I felt I belonged to someone. Weeks later, bolts of fabric filled my small apartment, the hum of machines replacing silence.
My first handmade dress stood proudly on a mannequin, not just cloth but proof of love passed down. When Nancy handed me an invitation to a fashion showcase, I pressed it to my chest. This time, I wasn’t dreaming from the sidewalk — I was stepping into the life my mother had left me.
